I went back to the inn and was told by a valet de place, whom Sir B—— M—— had hired, that the Englishman had gone to bed.
We were in need of a carriage, so I summoned the landlord and was astonished to find myself confronted by Roland in person.
“How’s this?” I said. “I thought you were still at the Place d’Espagne.”
“I have given my old house to my daughter who has married a prosperous Frenchman, while I have taken this palace where there are some magnificent rooms.”
“Has your daughter many foreigners staying at her house now?”
“Only one Frenchman, the Comte de l’Etoile, who is waiting for his equipage to come on. He has an excellent horse, and I am thinking of buying it from him.”
“I advise you to wait till to-morrow, and to say nothing about the advice I have given you.”
“Why should I wait?”
“I can’t say any more just now.”
This Roland was the father of the Thérèse whom I had loved nine years before, and whom my brother Jean had married in 1762, a year after my departure. Roland told me that my brother was in Rome with Prince Beloselski, the Russian ambassador to the Court of Saxony.